


being so normal

by soleil_slytherin



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Angst, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Childhood Friends, Friends to Enemies, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, New York City, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Panic Attacks, Peach Pit, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Songfic, War Veteran Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:28:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29789175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soleil_slytherin/pseuds/soleil_slytherin
Summary: bucky returns to new york missing an arm and a best friend.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13





	being so normal

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was inspired by the song "being so normal" by peach pit! go give it a listen while you read if you feel like it.

Bucky arrives back in Brooklyn with one tattered suitcase, hair to his shoulders, and a shit ton of emotional baggage.

He stands in front of his old apartment building, hands shoved into the pockets of his worn hoodie, and stares up at it. In the second floor—his apartment—the shades are open, and through the slots he can see a family. A young mother, her dark hair pulled back from her face, plays with a baby in a high chair as her wife stands over the stove, stirring something steaming.

Bucky wants to stay for longer, but he's a strange, scruffy-looking man, and he doesn't want to scare them. So he turns around and makes his way through the streets, lugging his suitcase behind him.

He would probably get less weird looks if he was wearing his uniform, but he doesn't want the pity. The looks at the airport were enough. If one more person thanks him for his service he might punch something. 

It would have to be with his right arm now, he thinks, because his left one is gone. As he's crossing the street he looks down at the empty sleeve at his side. It's still strange. It's so new that as he was  
leaving the airport he tried to hold the door open and stumbled instead, his stump held out uselessly. 

Now he walks across Brooklyn, to his new apartment. It's not in the best area, but Clint told him it’s a one bedroom, so Bucky will take what he gets. 

He’s pretty lucky to have Clint. He makes a mental note to text him later, then remembers neither of them have seen each other since the incident that got them both discharged. 

Bucky comes to a stop in front of a tall, red-bricked building. The steps are crumbling and little green plants sprout from the cracks. He fumbles with the keys and eventually gets the door open. His apartment is on the fifth floor. Not a fun walk with jetlag. He does it anyway, pushing through the exhaustion. 

He jabs the key into the lock and twists, opening the door to his new apartment.

It looks lonely. He thinks maybe he could fix it up a bit. Then he thinks, he would have taken fixing this place up as a challenge- and stops himself. 

He rolls his suitcase into a corner and looks around the bare room. There’s a fridge humming to his left, next to some shelves holding a microwave and The one piece of furniture is an ugly couch with bits of stuffing falling out. Reluctantly, he flops down on the couch, arranging a tattered mustard-colored throw pillow under his head. He'll shop for a bed and some sheets tomorrow, he thinks, his legs dangling over the opposite end of the couch. 

Bucky doesn't have the energy to process the fact that he's finally back home. He passes out.

Bucky wakes up to screams. He grasps at his side, where his gun is, before he realizes that he doesn't have his gun. Or a left arm to grab it with.  
Then what he has realized are sirens fade and Bucky eases himself upright on the couch. He runs his hands through his hair. It's greasy, so he strips and gets in the shower. The water isn't exactly cold, but he wouldn't call it warm either. It reminds him of the showers when he was deployed. He jerks the handle to the left so hard it nearly comes off and the water is blissfully, burning hot. He lets it wash over him with painful relief.

Once he's done, he changes into his only other pair of pants. He should probably go shopping. Or find a laundromat. He slips the same hoodie on again. It's old, but Bucky has never had the heart to throw it away.

He runs his hands slowly over the red fabric, a single white star printed in the middle. It's faded and peeling now, but when it was new it shone. 

His task for today, he decides, is going outside. Before he was discharged he heard all the stories about veterans who hole themselves up, too scared to go outside. Bucky decided he's not going to be like those vets. 

He lets himself out of his apartment, double-checking that the door is locked tight, and goes down the stairs fast so he doesn't have time to regret. 

The city is so loud. Was it always this loud? The cars honk around him constantly. People shout into their phones, trying to speak over the October wind. Trucks clatter over potholes and vendors call out to the walkers from their seats, gesturing to their goods. 

Bucky is a block away from his house, doing decently, when a door bangs open and it sounds like a bomb. He tells himself that he can get through it, but his heart begins to hammer, his breath quickens and he ducks into an alleyway.

He huddles to the ground, hand over one ear, pressing the other into his shoulder, for what feels like hours, until he can take some shallow breaths without wheezing. He raises his head to see a man sitting across from him.

He looks like he's in his forties, with greyed hair and tattered clothing. He sits on an old weathered blanket, with a faded blue backpack propped up against the brick wall of the building he’s leaning on. 

"Just got back?" the man says, voice raspy and unused.

Bucky tries to speak but nothing comes out, so he just nods. Is it that obvious?

"It'll get better," the man smiles softly.

Bucky doesn't have a response. He smiles weakly back and ducks back out of the alley, leaving his hand over his ear until he manages to get back to his apartment building. 

He wakes up the next morning with little recollection of the last day. He sits up in his bed—technically it’s still his couch—and decides to try again. 

This time he ducks into a corner store a few buildings down and gets some earplugs. They aren’t a fix-all, but he hopes they’ll help.

He walks without a destination at first, but he ends up following the same path he used to when he was a teenager. When he brushes someone he recoils, and the amount of people around him feels almost crushing, but he pushes forwards. 

He’s walking over a sewer grate, stream curling from its depths, when he catches a flash of blonde hair at his shoulders. He turns his head so quickly it cricks, but it's just a little boy running to catch up with his mother. Bucky sighs and shoves his hand into his pocket. He’s not used to the cold anymore—New York winters can be brutal, but after two years overseas all the immunity he’d built up as a kid seems to have disappeared. He remembers playing in the snow banks in Central Park as a kid, scooping some snow into a ball before his mom yelled at him because she had just seen a homeless man piss in it. 

He shakes his head to interrupt the thought before it sends him spiraling. 

Bucky’s coming to the realization that he doesn’t have a destination. He’s heading towards the restaurant where Peggy and Angie work—used to work, maybe? He wonders if they still do, or if they’ve moved on. It’s been nearly two years. 

His heart pounds in his chest as he rounds the corner and the glowing Junior’s sign greets him. He spent so many hours after school here, making spitballs out of paper straw wrappers, doodling on the side of the menu, folding his napkins into miniature origami pieces. 

His hand opens the door almost out of habit. His pamphlet had said that facing familiar places would help, but this feels like the opposite of helping. It's been almost two years and it still feels like an open wound. The door jingles and Bucky realizes he hasn’t even brought his wallet. 

He feels so stupid. Peggy and Angie have probably left the diner—maybe Angie finally landed a good gig, maybe Peggy got accepted into that government program she was too young for when he left.  
He wouldn't even know what to say to them anyways. 

"Sir?” Bucky looks up to see a woman staring at him expectantly. He blinks. 

"Sorry… uhh,” he stutters, "could you repeat that?"

The lady nods understandingly. "Would you like to be seated?"

Bucky opens his mouth to decline, but ends up nodding his head. The lady—Dottie, from her nametag—leads him to a seat tucked in the corner of the diner, near the door. He sits with his back to the wall and his bad arm to the window. 

Someone places a menu in front of him, and Bucky thumbs through it, flicking the edge over and over with his thumb. It’s already worn, probably from the people before him who did the same thing. He’s about to flip to the last page as he catches, in the corner of his eye, a whirlwind of a girl storming up to him. 

Shit. It really was a terrible idea to come here.

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this back in october and figured, fuck it, i'll publish it. doubt anyone's going to read it but why not :)
> 
> if you want an actual continuation comment pls :D


End file.
